


Why Aren't You Here?

by chocolateandnerves



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Crying, Drinking, Drunkenness, M/M, butterflychansan, just a lot of sads ok, wisteria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:56:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1293835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolateandnerves/pseuds/chocolateandnerves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When someone isn't there when you need them, you fracture just a little. And you cry. </p>
<p>Marco Bodt is an expert at gluing himself back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Aren't You Here?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterflychansan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflychansan/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wisteria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082182) by [butterflychansan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflychansan/pseuds/butterflychansan). 



The kitchen floor of my apartment is uneven. There are bumps and blemishes in it that you can’t see unless you get down and press your face to the ground and peer across the kitchen, and even then you have to be there for a while to notice.

I know this because my cheek is currently resting on the cold tile, and I’m staring into space across the bare floor. It’s so quiet, and everything is holding relatively still, considering. 

Maybe I should have stopped three beers ago. 

There’s really no reason for me to be consuming so much alcohol in one sitting. The dwindling 24-pack of Budweiser in my fridge had been brought by the shop this afternoon by a newlywed couple as thanks for doing their wedding arrangements. I didn’t want to tell them that neither I nor the shop owner really drink that much, so I took the case anyway with a smile and half a thank you before they swept out the door again. My boss told me to take the whole thing home with me when I showed it to him. Said he thought I could use it. 

Truthfully, I haven’t been this drunk in a while. I think too much when I’m inebriated, and I tend to not make the best decisions about what I say and who to. I haven’t been this drunk since before—

Nope. Nope, we aren’t going there, uh-uh. 

I’m not going to think about the kid that banged on the window as I was locking up, begging me for one red rose for his girlfriend because it was their one month anniversary. I’m not going to think about the fact that he had on a Spiderman t-shirt and his sandy hair was capped with a beanie. I’m definitely not going to think about how that beanie was a well-loved, worn-out red. 

It’s always the little things that break me down. I can’t look at anyone else without seeing a little piece of him in them. That one has his crooked smile. This one has the same tawny eyes. He owned that same exact t-shirt in college. A gesture, an expression. A voice in the supermarket, the same slight accent pulling up vowels in some places, making my heart ache with the longing that won’t go away, no matter how much I try to ignore it. And sometimes, it works. Sometimes I can go about my day, not remembering, not thinking. But then there it is. A kid in a red beanie, staring at me with a funny expression on his face as he watches my hands shake on the deadbolt before I let him in.

He doesn’t want you, Marco, says a voice in my head. I know, I reply. But I can’t stop wishing he did.

I decide that trying to sit up is probably a good idea, wincing at the way the room spins as I lean my back against the dishwasher. There’s a ringing in my ears, I think, but then I realize that my phone is going off in the living room. I stumble to my feet, which aren’t exactly reliable at the moment, making my wobbly way to the couch, where I’d discarded my phone earlier this evening. 

The caller ID shows one missed call from Erwin and I crumble inside a little because I know he’s going to be shipped off soon, and who am I to be wallowing in my drunken sorrows when he’s going to tour in one of the most hostile environments known to man? A slurred curse hisses out between my teeth. I can’t call him back like this. I’ll get back to him in the morning. 

Clutching the phone in one hand, I head back into the kitchen, reassuming my sentry duty in front of the dishwasher. Chairs seem too precarious right now. I tip my head back against the dishwasher, which makes a dull thud that sounds deafening in the silence. My phone buzzes to announce that Erwin left a voicemail. I look back to the screen and clumsily unlock it. 

I don’t want to call Erwin back. I’d be too embarrassed. But there is one person whose voice I desperately need to hear. 

I couldn’t tell you why I still have his number saved in my contacts. When I got a new phone, I transferred everything over. Even his information. But I just saved it under the letter ‘J’—I can barely let myself think his name, much less look at it when I scroll through my contacts, knowing I can’t say a word to him. 

And now I’m barely conscious of opening it up, hitting the dial button, holding the phone to my ear, as tears start to well up in my eyes. I stop breathing. 

But all I hear is the error tones chiming loudly and a voice telling me that this number has been disconnected. The tears come readily now. 

“Where are you?” I ask the kitchen hoarsely. “Why aren’t you here? Where did you go? I need you, Jean, I want you here, why aren’t you here?” I babble into the receiver nonsensically, not even hearing the words tumbling out of my mouth anymore. My voice breaks, tears choking up my throat, and my vision blurs significantly more than it had been. 

I somehow get horizontal again, and I can feel wetness running across the bridge of my nose and down my cheek to the tile. Hatred wells in my stomach, roiling and turning me inside out. I hate how vulnerable I am. I hate that he made me this way. I hate that I’m not making any progress, even with my new job and my new place and my new life. I hate feeling defeated and alone and disgusted with myself. 

Maybe it isn’t hatred. My eyes snap open and I lurch up for the kitchen sink, thankfully making it before my stomach emptied its contents all over the floor. This was a horrible decision. 

The bed is soft and welcoming when I collapse into it after a luke-warm shower, and it’s hard to abandon when my alarm goes off for work the next morning. My head is pounding. 

I slink out of the blankets and start the day anyway. I go through the motions, making my life orderly again. Putting things back together. Underwear, pants, shirt. Comb hair, brush teeth. Breakfast. I make a point to put a sticky note on the fridge, reminding me to get rid of what’s left of the beer and offer it to my neighbor when I get home later, who I’ve seen with the same case once or twice. 

I call Erwin back, apologizing for missing his call. We talk, make plans to have dinner soon, and hang up. 

Before I walk out the door, I delete my call history and the contact labeled ‘J’ from my phone.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh jeez, I wrote this on a whim. I'm kind of gawking at the fact that I just cranked out 1000 words in two hours.  
> I really hope I captured your Marco, Claudia. He's just a big sad baby with his crocodile tears. 
> 
> Side note, I've actually sat on the floor of my kitchen, drunk, asking my long-distance partner why he was so far away. It's painful. You cry.


End file.
